When I build a fire, I feel purposeful –proud I can unscrew the wing nutsfrom off the rusted bolts, dis-assembling one of the things my exleft when he left right left. And laying itsnarrow, polished, maple anglesacross the kindling, providing for updraft –good. Then by flame-light I see: I am burninghis med-school easel. How can that be,after the hours and hours – all told, maybeweeks, a month of stillness – modellingfor him, our first years together,odour of acrylic, stretch of treatedcanvas. I am burning his left-behind craft,he who was the first to turnour family, naked, into art.What if someone had told me, thirtyyears ago: If you give up, now,wanting to be an artist, he mightlove you all your life – what would Ihave said? I didn't even have an art,it would come from out of our family's life –what could I have said: nothing will stop me.

• From Stag's Leap by Sharon Olds (Cape Poetry, £10) To order a copy for £8 with free UK p&p go to theguardian.com/bookshop